


This is How You Lose the Grail War

by WhatTheDog



Category: Fate/Apocrypha, Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't expect a happy ending, Enemies to Lovers, Forbidden Love, M/M, Sexual Content, War, in the sense that they're in a war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatTheDog/pseuds/WhatTheDog
Summary: And in the end, it was the simple truth Diarmuid had always known: fate was simply too cruel. Perhaps in another circumstance—another life—their love would have been possible. But in this one, this war, they are servants, bound to their master and the uncaring machinations of the universe. Any hope for a future was nothing but foolish.He can only pray when the time comes that he is the first to fall. As selfish as it is, he does not wish to live with the memory of Cú's blood on his hands.
Relationships: Cú Chulainn Alter | Berserker/Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Lancer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody, I had this idea for forbidden love with these two in an Apocrypha like event, so here we are! I don't actually know much about Apocrypha beyond the Red Faction/Black Faction stuff, but honestly I'm not going to focus on that. This is all about yearning and angst, and the title is a reference to a work that is way better than anything I could ever write. (If you haven't, you should totally read This is How You Lose the Time War. It's beautiful.)
> 
> Note: Caster refers to Shakespeare and Saber to Mordred. I've seen conflicting reports as to Mordred's pronouns, so I've chosen to refer to them as they. Hopefully that's okay. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

There were currently two enemy Servants in the vicinity.

Granted, only two that Diarmuid could _detect_ —the possibility of Assassin couldn’t be ruled out—but at the moment, he felt fairly confident in his and Saber’s assessment. Both of them skirted around the upper levels of the warehouse, always mindful of each footfall, each breath. They didn’t want to give away the Red Faction’s position just yet.

They crouched behind a low wall. “On the count of three,” breathed Saber. “I go for Rider. You take Archer.”

He nodded, secretly relieved those were the only classes present. No Berserker. Good. His Command Seal wouldn’t factor in this scenario. And any scenario in which it didn’t he counted as a boon; he’d hated the damn thing from the very first day his master had placed it on him.

True to form, at the end of the countdown Saber leapt down to the lower level, geared for an ambush. Diarmuid gave his adversary one moment to realize his presence, then rushed in, landing with a roll on the concrete floor beside some sort of industrial equipment.

The Archer fellow was surprisingly adept with a blade. He easily parried most of Diarmuid’s strikes, never gaining an offensive, but at least holding him at bay. Judging by the frustrated shrieks only a few meters away, Saber was having more success with their target.

Then—oh no. That sound. Saber screamed, a distorted noise from their horned helmet, right after the guttural snarl. Diarmuid’s stomach dropped like a stone. How had the huge Berserker managed to evade detection?

He spared a glance toward Saber. With both Rider and Berserker attacking—a strange dichotomy of slender grace and monstrous power—Saber was barely holding their own. His Command Seal took over at the sight.

Leaving Archer behind, he raced toward the fray, giving one brief warning call as his heart sank. Berserker looked up and hesitated for just the tiniest fraction of a second.

Diarmuid took that second. He used Gáe Buidhe to slash a thin line by the man’s shoulder, then hoisted the wounded Saber over his shoulder, who was somehow still struggling and screaming for him to let go even while covered in blood.

Their escape was cowardly and awful, but with the Command Seal burning at his core, Diarmuid could do nothing else.

* * *

“A disastrous mission,” said the master of Saber, glaring at the now healed and armorless servant. “The goal was to take down either Rider or Archer. both of whom now will be perfectly fine. You couldn’t have spent just a few extra minutes checking for any other servants’ whereabouts?”

“They were distracted,” Saber mumbled, tugging a blond lock of hair. “The opportunity might have passed in a few minutes. We didn’t sense any other servants.”

Diarmuid nodded along. The Black Faction servants had been off their guard, clearly looking for something amidst the boilers and odd conveyer belts and other machines he didn’t even have a name for. An energy source? A weapon? Who cared. For Saber, it had been the perfect moment, and Berserker’s surprise meant one of two things: he had been alerted to their attack and teleported, likely through the means of a Command Seal… or he could somehow cloak his presence. The second was far more alarming.

Diarmuid’s own Master spoke up, that snivelly voice he’d come to hate: “At least Lancer managed to land a strike on Berserker.” He smirked. “For once, you’ve done something useful—Berserker is their most powerful servant, and now he has a wound that won’t heal. Looks like my Command Seal wasn’t such a bad idea after all, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course, my Lord,” Diarmuid said on reflex. It never ceased to amaze him how the man could turn even a compliment into an insult. To add injury, now he was propping up his dishonorable order, the one Diarmuid had protested against. It was against his code to perform sneak attacks and flee, to slowly destroy an enemy with underhanded tactics. He understood the strategy, but such a blatant act of cowardice weighed heavily on his conscience and dulled his blades.

The meeting moved on to new strategies and plans after the snide comment, plans that Diarmuid half-listened to. When the meeting adjourned, he tried to touch a hand to Saber’s shoulder in sympathy, but the petite blond jerked away before stomping off. He sighed.

“Off to patrol?” Caster asked knowingly.

He nodded at the bearded man, again wondering for the umpteenth time who exactly would be this smarmy. The Red Faction masters had strict rules that none of the other servants should know each other’s identities. The only one who had broken this rule was the now fallen Rider, who—in a blaze of arrogance—had revealed himself as the legendary hero of Troy, Achilles, before being brought down with a strike to the heel. No one had made the same mistake since.

Speaking of perceived mistakes, Diarmuid headed out of their base fortress. With a couple of hours to kill spent “patrolling,” he took a brief detour to the city, quickly scanning a few of the empty, nighttime streets. Just something to absolve his guilt, considering he wasn’t doing what he actually claimed to be doing. Satisfied that nothing seemed urgent, he moved east, toward the outskirts of town. Toward a rocky cliff with a waterfall flowing over its side. There was one outcropping that formed a pool, a single break in the turbulent flow, and it was there that the grotto resided, his secret destination. He scaled the cliff like he had so many times before, his heart hammering in his chest.

As soon as he stepped foot into the grotto, he saw he wasn’t alone—the Black Faction Berserker sat with his back against the wall.

Diarmuid rushed forward. “Cú!” he gasped. He embraced the man, kissing him with the passion that only sheer desperation could accomplish. “Oh Cú,” he whispered, tracing the bandage around his shoulder, still crusted with blood. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“Don’t be.” The berserker rolled his shoulder, wincing at the motion. “You did what you had to do.”

The words didn’t dissolve the lump residing in Diarmuid’s throat. “Will it hinder you?” he asked.

Cú paused. “Maybe a little. But I’ll be fine.”

For a moment, Diarmuid thought about asking how Cú might have surprised them, then decided against it. They weren’t supposed to bring up such topics. This was a neutral zone, and instead of forbidden subjects, Cú nuzzled Diarmuid’s forehead, lips just barely grazing against his skin. “How much time do you have?

“Maybe an hour,” Diarmuid breathed, his nerves dancing. “If that.”

It was the reality of the situation. There was never enough time, and they wasted as little as possible. Their lips met as frantic hands pulled at buckles and slipped off fabric, eager to unearth warm flesh, technically not alive, but the closest approximation to alive that a servant could achieve. With his back against the ground, Cú pulled Diarmuid on top to straddle him, to coax the rhythmic motions of his hips, his sighs low and plaintive as his hands grasped at Diarmuid’s thighs and backside. It was volatile, their union, as they keened and thrusted, sweat forming on brows and dripping onto fingers tangled in hair. It was like they could never be close enough, even with skin flush against skin; there was always that knowledge that it would end, that it would be over far too soon. And it was, like every time before, as they lay panting, basking in the afterglow of a luxury neither could truly afford yet took anyway.

Diarmuid kissed him again, tasting him, as if Cú’s lips were the only thing that could sustain him. “Will you be available two days from now?” he asked, praying for a yes that wouldn’t come.

“I’ll do my best,” Cú replied, the standard response, because neither of them ever knew what might occur even two minutes from now.

Again, they embraced, then slipped off into the night in opposite directions. Even though he shouldn’t have, Diarmuid watched Cú leave, his heart heavy, his eyes straining to find shape and form to the departing silhouette that was gone before he could truly take it in.

There was never enough time. But that was their reality, and wishing it were different wouldn’t make it so.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of how Cú and Diarmuid meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this has been sitting at nearly finished for a while now, so uh... sorry about that. Also I promise I'll be getting a new chapter of AGBMT out soon. I moved recently and my mom got Covid (she's ok), but life... yeah. Anyway, enough excuses. I've also been lazy, because I totally do have enough time to write. Hope you enjoy and the next chapter doesn't take me as long!

Their first meeting had been an accident.

It occurred shortly after Rider had fallen. After he’d proclaimed his name to his enemies’ face, so secure in his strength, he was overwhelmed by the Black Faction Berserker, who disarmed him with a blow to his heel, then finished him off just as quickly.

The Red Faction masters were furious at the loss, to say the least.

“Why didn’t any of you stop him?” Assassin’s master, their de facto leader, had screamed. “Now we’ve lost one of our most powerful units. How are we supposed to recover from this?”

No one had an answer. After over an hour of more admonishment, it seemed the meeting was over. For everyone, that was, except Diarmuid.

His own master pulled him aside to a private room. “Lancer,” he said, lacing his fingers, his smile obviously fake, “can you tell me your spears’ abilities again?”

Already dreading where this was heading, Diarmuid answered, “My longer spear, Gáe Dearg, nullifies magic. The shorter, Gáe Buidhe, causes wounds that cannot be healed.”

“Quite the ability, isn’t it?” his master crooned. “Yet—pray tell—why have I never seen you whittle an enemy down with Gáe Buidhe?”

“Because it is a lowly tactic, my Lord. My code of chivalry requires me to promise my opponents a fair fight.”

“Lancer,” he sighed, “this is WAR. This is not a romantic fairy tale, with princesses and dragons—this is a conflict to decide the very fate of humanity. Surely you can bend your morals just this once?”

Diarmuid did not budge. “A conviction is to be upheld no matter the circumstance, regardless of convenience. If I waver in my stance, then I am as low as a common worm.”

His master’s eyes flashed. “Then perhaps it is time you get off your pedestal and writhe with the rest of us.” He raised his hand, the sigil of his Command Seals glowing. Even though Diarmuid had expected this, he still flinched. “Lancer, whenever Berserker appears in combat, I order you to strike at him with your spear, Gáe Buidhe, then flee. You will not alert him to your intention.”

The deed was done. Feeling dazed, Diarmuid left, his spears much heavier than when he’d entered.

It was the first time he’d used patrolling as an excuse. There had been several robberies and some vandalism over the past week, and the Red Faction masters had raised concerns about the implications. It wasn’t out of good will that they wanted it to stop, or even the possibility of a threat; it was more that they didn’t want to be bothered.

Diarmuid spent all of around fifteen minutes in the city before he headed east. A few days ago, he’d noticed a natural grotto on an outcropping of a cliff outside town. With the nearby waterfall, perhaps it would cover the sounds of his frustration.

He scaled the cliff easily enough. It would have been an impossible task for a normal human, but he was a servant, and even then, he remembered back in Ireland how he’d been the only one able to climb such steep surfaces when him and the Fianna pursued the Gilla Decair.

Scrambling over the edge, he shook his head, flinging a few stray water droplets. He headed toward the grotto when a shifting shadow caught his eye. In a flash he’d materialized his spears.

Warily, he crept closer before a low, monotone voice drawled, “Lower your weapons, Lancer of Red. I have no desire for conflict with you this evening.”

It took a moment for Diarmuid’s eyes to adjust to the darkness despite his heightened senses, but when they did, he found the Black Faction Berserker seated just a few feet away. Unlike every other time Diarmuid had seen him, he wasn’t wearing his battle get-up. Gone were the huge red claws and horned helmet—now, only a hood covered his blue locks, and his gauntlet-less hands held a cigarette to his lips. It was such a mundane sight that Diarmuid couldn’t help but falter.

“What trick is this?” he asked.

The berserker shook his head. “No trick. In fact, if you are here, I suspect it is for the same reason as me—enjoying a brief respite from the war out in the night air.” He took a puff, smoke lazily curling toward the sky. “If you can accept that, then no blood need be shed tonight.”

Truthfully, it was exactly what Diarmuid wanted, but the Command Seal burned at the back of his mind. Would he be forced to break this tentative truce anyway? Maybe… but then again, his master had specified “in combat.” This was not combat.

The burning subsided, and now satisfied, Diarmuid took his own seat a few feet away. For a while he just watched the lights of the city, but eventually curiosity got the best of him, and he snuck a few glances to his nighttime partner. He’d never seen the man’s face before. It was… more delicate than he would have expected. An elegant nose, high cheekbones decorated in strange markings underneath crimson eyes, a masculine jaw set in contemplation—if anything, Diarmuid might have even described him as beautiful.

He scowled at the thought. No need to wax poetic about a beast. Yet now that the man wasn’t in armor, he could tell that—besides the tail—all of his monstrous features actually seemed to be part of his costume. Probably meant as an intimidation tactic, one that had worked on Diarmuid more than a few times in battle. Any man with even an ounce of self-preservation would hesitate when set against a giant brute with razor-sharp claws.

But now, there was an amiable quality to their shared silence. It wasn’t quite _friendly,_ per se, but it wasn’t hostile either. Diarmuid felt content to watch the city, the waterfall, the clouds, and more often than he cared to admit, Berserker.

His reverie ended as Berserker rose to his feet and extinguished his cigarette. Even without his armor, he was still a good head taller than Diarmuid, and with a slight bow of his head, he bid farewell and departed.

For several minutes, Diarmuid continued to enjoy the silence, then decided to head back to base. He glanced at the spot where Berserker had been sitting.

No trick indeed.

* * *

The second time Diarmuid visited the grotto, he wasn’t surprised to find Berserker there. He sat in the same spot as before, cigarette in hand, staring out into space while Diarmuid paced beside the turbulent pool.

The churning water reflected Diarmuid’s mood. He was fidgety from constant admonishments, from constant scorn. His master was irritated with him for not landing a strike on Berserker during battle.

“ _He is excellent at deflecting my blows_ ,” Diarmuid had explained, but all that answer had earned was another several minutes of swearing.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair out of agitation, then spared a glance toward his companion. It was odd, truly it was. Earlier this evening, he’d been trying to spear the man, and now one might have mistaken them for acquaintances. Possibly even friends. In any case, he was amazed at how easily it was to drop his mask of deference around him. 

Berserker took another puff, and Diarmuid frowned. Those markings on his cheeks… were they runes? He had only a cursory knowledge of them—he wasn’t a druid after all—but to him, it almost looked like an inverse “ _jera_.” That rune signified the harvest: prosperity, manifestation. But when laid in opposition? He shivered—conflict, setbacks. The return of unfinished business. He suddenly didn’t want to look anymore.

“What is so intriguing about my face?” The berserker met his gaze, those ruby eyes so penetrating, so otherworldly. “You have been staring for several minutes now.”

Diarmuid jerked. “My apologies.” He bowed his head. “I was simply trying to decipher your markings.”

“That is a foolish task.” Berserker traced the circle on his impressive chest solemnly. “It is best you leave it be.”

“I see.” Diarmuid hesitated, then perhaps pushing his luck, asked, “Are your origins Celtic?”

“You and I both know I can’t answer that.”

“I didn’t ask for your identity. Merely your ancestry.”

“A dangerous question still.”

“Very well,” Diarmuid said. “I’d probably give myself a headache if I kept staring, anyway.”

The turbulence of the water filled the silence of the conversational lull. For some reason, Diarmuid didn’t want to leave it at that, with nothing but frothy water filling the gaps. “I also have markings,” he offered, holding up a spear. He had no idea why he was disclosing this information, but Berserker was cocking his head in interest, and it served the purpose of keeping the noise of the waterfall at bay. “I can’t tell you their meanings,” he said, then added, “obviously.”

“Obviously,” Berserker repeated.

“But they’re similar, are they not?”

“Only fools and madmen search for patterns where none exist.”

“Very well,” he said again, deflating. He should have expected such a response. It wasn’t like Berserker had any reason to accommodate his nonsense, yet it was disappointing all the same. Like a slap in the face, almost.

Disheartened, this time, Diarmuid was the first to depart, and he wasn’t sure if he would be back.

* * *

But he was.

And perhaps Berserker actually had noticed his disappointment, because when he did return, amidst puffing on his cigarette, Berserker asked, “Do both of your spears have markings, or just the one?”

“Both,” Diarmuid answered, eager for conversation, for something other than the oppressive frostiness from his master and the lukewarm exchanges with his fellow faction members. “Runes.” He coughed. “Of unknown origin.”

“Hmm… but you seemed to think mine were Celtic. That’s suspicious.”

“Doesn’t mean mine are Celtic.”

“But it does mean you have experience with Celtic runes.” Berserker propped one arm on his knee. “You don’t strike me as a druid, though. I’m assuming your knowledge is cursory.”

“I could be a midwife for all you know.”

This actually earned Diarmuid a smile. It lit up those strange markings, the ones that had started all this in the first place, and those ruby eyes of Berserker’s gleamed in the moonlight. “A midwife with spears? Do you deliver babies during the day and fight off bandits at night?”

“Nah, the baby delivering is actually what happens at night.”

Smoke lazily curled from the man’s lips. He tapped his cigarette. “Then what else can you tell me about your past life?” he asked after a few seconds.

Diarmuid smiled. “That’s enough for now,” he said, pleased at how invested he’d managed to get Berserker. “Maybe more will come later.”

And with that, he left.

* * *

The next time they met, Diarmuid wasn’t in as jovial a mood. His master had used another Command Seal on him to finish off the Black Faction Lancer when the man had called for a truce, and any triumph he might have felt at the defeat of an enemy had been tainted.

Upon arriving, he ignored the Black Faction servant with his cigarette and spent several minutes yelling into the waterfall, long enough that his voice grew hoarse and his throat burned.

“Feeling better?” Berserker asked wryly once he was finished.

He didn’t answer, and they sat in silence for several minutes before Berserker offered, “I dislike my master as well.”

Diarmuid was flabbergasted. Both at his ability to pinpoint the source of his frustration, and how flippantly he expressed it. “You should not say such things,” he finally said.

“Why?”

“B-because,” Diarmuid stammered, “it is disrespectful. We shouldn’t speak ill of our lords.”

“Lord?” Berserker laughed, a harsh noise. “The miserable rat that is my master should be lucky to even be called a man, let alone a lord.”

Again, Diarmuid reeled. Yes, it was true he wasn’t particularly happy about his own arrangement, but never in a million years would he have voiced it to another. Especially not to an _enemy._ Hell, just Diarmuid cracking a couple jokes last time might have been forbidden, but it was nothing like what Berserker was doing here. And yet…

“How so?” he asked, surprising even himself. Why was he continuing this conversation?

“Have you heard of the robberies occurring in the city?” When Diarmuid nodded, Berserker scowled. “That is his doing.”

“What?”

“He views having a servant as a pass to act without impunity. He takes whatever he desires, whether it be material objects, women, money… you name it.”

Diarmuid’s head buzzed. “Why is the Overseer allowing this? It’s forbidden for us to meddle in civilian affairs.”

Berserker shrugged. “I have no idea. But it doesn’t change what is going on.”

Perturbed, Diarmuid glanced away. In context, he could understand Berserker’s frustrations. As obnoxious as his own master’s attitude could be, he was suddenly grateful he’d never had to stoop to that level.

“You have given me a deeper appreciation for my own master,” he said at last.

Berserker snorted. “You shouldn’t. They’re all rats.”

* * *

The punishment was almost hilarious. It had to be punishment, Diarmuid reasoned; that’s all there was to it. His master must have known he’d been doing his best to avoid situations that required the Command Seal, and now he was being forced to run petty errands, tasks ill-suited for a servant in the alien, modern world. For another he might not have minded, but for his current commander, buying groceries seemed both demeaning and daunting.

But he managed. He collected the latest request of convenience store goods, deposited them, then hastily excused himself for patrolling.

“Lancer,” a voice called out right before he left. Caster walked toward him, waving his arms. When next to him, he leaned in and whispered, “Thought this might jazz up your ‘patrolling.’” With a wink, he placed a bottle into Diarmuid’s hands, some amber liquid that almost seemed to glisten.

Diarmuid hurriedly tucked it away into a bag. “Thanks,” he mumbled, not sure what game was afoot. He hurried out with the bag, because even though he was a little leery of Caster’s intentions, at the same time he didn’t want to squander good booze.

He settled into his usual spot in the grotto and stared absentmindedly for a few minutes until Berserker arrived. This time, before the man could pull out his cigarette, Diarmuid offered him the bottle.

Berserker stared at him suspiciously.

“It’s not drugged,” he said quickly, then to demonstrate, he took a large swallow, coughing on the strangely fruity, yet bitter flavor. “See?”

Still wary, Berserker accepted and took a sip. He recoiled. “That is quite powerful.”

Now that he’d mentioned it, Diarmuid was beginning to wonder if his drugged comment was false. He felt surprisingly limber and loose, almost fuzzy, and he clutched his head briefly. “Yes, it is… something.”

“I wouldn’t have pinned you as the type to drink on the job.”

He raised his head to find Berserker’s eyebrow quirked. He laughed. “I suppose I’m being daring.” The bottle was handed back to him, and he took a sip, debating with himself as the liquor flowed through his veins, before blurting out, “It’s been a rather miserable week.” He handed the bottle back, and Berserker took another sip.

“Is that all you wish to share?”

That’s all he should share. But his tongue felt light and free, and his head buzzed pleasantly, so without meaning to he started talking. “I know we are called servants, but I’ve been relegated to errands. Menial tasks that have nothing to do with the war.”

“Ah.” Berserker wiped his mouth and handed the bottle over. “See, I told you they’re all rats.”

Diarmuid couldn’t bring himself to agree despite his own psyche nodding. “It is humiliating, but I do not know if that makes my master a rat.” He chugged a bit more of the drink, coughing again. A relaxing warmth spread through his limbs. “I… dislike him,” he admitted. “But he is still my master.”

“Would you feel free to speak your mind were he not?”

Diarmuid hesitated. “Perhaps.” He nearly dropped the bottle, and Berserker pulled it away from him to take a large swallow.

“Then pretend he is not your master.” He cocked his head, eyes gleaming. “I can tell it’s eating away at you, and I am not here to tattletale.”

“He is egotistical—” The words were coming now, whether Diarmuid wanted them to or not. It was like pulling the cork from a vial, like letting everything that had been pent up overflow into the world. And maybe part of it was loneliness, being constantly surrounded by other servants, but never really connecting with them. That somehow his only true moments of freedom came with these nighttime rendezvous with an enemy.

“He mocks my ideals, he makes no effort to understand my rationale, to choose strategies that utilize my strengths. He seems to believe conviction is a weakness; he insults me at every turn.” He was standing now and had actually began to pace without realizing it. “And he is a _coward._ He dare spew such vulgarities to me when he would never set foot on a battlefield, when the thought of death leaves him stinking of urine and fear. Sometimes it’s almost nauseating to be in his presence—”

He stopped as Berserker began laughing raucously.

“My, Lancer. You _are_ being quite daring.” The man wiped his eyes. His cheeks were tinged from the liquor, his usual apathetic demeanor gone. “For one so poised, this is quite the turn.”

Diarmuid flushed. “I may have gone too far.”

“Nonsense. I like this side of you. You’re always so calculated, so careful; you even fight like a dancer.”

He bristled. “Like a _what?_ ”

“Calm down.” Berserker took another long swallow, offering the bottle over yet again. “It was not an insult. I was merely complimenting your footwork and form.”

“I see.” Diarmuid swirled the liquid, almost feeling dizzy at the golden shimmer. “If we’re comparing, you fight like an ox.”

“Oxen have more subtlety.”

He couldn’t help his grin, lopsided from the liquor. “What about dancers?”

Berserker chuckled. “I don’t think it’s possible for a face like yours not to draw attention.”

Diarmuid coughed to hide the heat in his cheeks. “Yours is not too bad either,” he admitted.

“Now, now, Lancer. Let’s not get carried away. Flattery won’t save you from my spear.”

“Even if I were on my knees?”

For a moment, Diarmuid feared he’d gone too far, but to his relief, Berserker appeared more amused than anything else. His eyes glinted. “No, not even then… but I wouldn’t mind the sight.”

“Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that.”

“I’m not a praying man.”

“Neither am I.” He glanced back at the bottle; there wasn’t much left. He finished it off. “But I’m also not the kind of man to be out drinking when he should be patrolling… yet here we are.”

“Here we are indeed,” Berserker hummed.

Silence stretched on for a moment until Diarmuid couldn’t stand it anymore. “Why didn’t you attack me that first night?” he blurted out.

“Probably for the same reason you didn’t attack me.”

Diarmuid paused. In a way, he’d already figured that reason, but it seemed too simple an answer. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he admitted. And he meant it. He hadn’t realized how much these little outings soothed his soul, and for a moment, his eyes strayed to Berserker’s face, his lips. Would the liquor taste better were he to drink from another source?

“You’re staring again.”

He jerked, slightly woozy. “Those runes are just fascinating,” he mumbled.

“Were I feeling generous, I might be up to divulging a few secrets. What would you be willing to bargain?”

“Nothing.” _And everything._

“Good. Stay resolute to your principles.”

“I think I’ve already ruined that with the liquor.” He snorted as a thought occurred to him again. “This would be the perfect time for me to attack you… you’re drunk.”

“I feel fine.”

“You’re slurring.”

Berserker blinked. Stared at the bottle held in Diarmuid’s slack hands. “I—” There was something wonderful in seeing someone so normally stoic appear dumbstruck. He laughed, and Diarmuid hated how much he loved the sound. “You bastard. You _have_ gotten me drunk.”

" _You_ got _yourself_ drunk. Don’t blame me for your own choices.”

“True. My treachery is my own doing.” He leaned back with a smirk. “On that note... what other daring deeds does Lancer have planned for this evening now that he’s shirked all pretense?"

Diarmuid couldn’t answer. Everything swayed for a moment, yet the distant city lights, the moonlight and stars, bathed the world in a hazy glow. Those crimson eyes of Berserker’s were like jewels, and his sentence rattled around Diarmuid’s brain like a marble, taunting him, because all of a sudden all he wanted to do was _touch_ him, to taste his mouth and trace his runes, to indulge in the forewarned disaster of those markings, because he’d been cursed from the day the steward’s child had run in-between Donn’s knees, so what did it matter now?

He threw the bottle, watching the glass shatter with a pang of satisfaction, then crossed over to Berserker. “This,” he said and crushed their lips together.

Full and supple, still tasting of the fruity bitterness of the drink—Diarmuid relished in the heat and shape of them before Berserker shoved him back. He stumbled, and all of a sudden, regret cascaded over him like the nearby waterfall.

“I… I apologize. I don’t know what came over m—”

“Shut up,” Berserker growled. He grabbed Diarmuid’s hair, his eyes fiery and alive. “Just shut the fuck up. I can’t stand your humility.”

Then he kissed Diarmuid again, far rougher than the first time, all teeth and passion and pent-up desire—Diarmuid melted. They pawed at each other and before long, he was on his back with Berserker looming over him, larger than life, that impressive chest heaving as he rutted and groaned.

When all was said and done, Berserker sat up—somehow cigarette in hand again—with his back to him, and even though all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around the man, he wasn’t sure how the action would be tolerated, sex be damned.

Berserker snorted, breaking his reverie. “My, Lancer.” He took a puff, casting a sidelong glance. “You even fuck like a dancer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Gilla Decair was a weird dude the Fianna had to chase and in the story, Diarmuid had to scale this super sheer cliff. There's your mythology note. 
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache@tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> tumblr: batman-mustache.tumblr.com


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